The Lurker at the Threshold : A Horror Mystery

by Brandon Berntson

  They all stopped and looked at her.

  “Too graphic?” she asked.

  —

  They walked for several blocks in silence. The traffic had thinned on nearby streets. It was feeling like a waste of time until the hound bayed. Fog materialized and curled around the buildings.

  “Is it me, or does that sound like more than a hound?” Macky asked.

  “The fog isn’t helping,” Millie said.

  They moved deeper into the alley. The fog gathered, thicker. The chill settled. Footsteps sounded, the soft patter of padded toes on the sidewalk, the scrape of nails.

  “Do you smell that?” Newt asked, looking around.

  Macky nodded. “Like a tarry sort of stickiness. Ripe.”

  “It might’ve been better to stay back in the office,” Duke said.

  A vibration was coming from the sidewalk—a tremor in the stone.

  “Dev, what is that?” Millie asked.

  “If I knew the answer, I’d be dead,” Macky said.

  “Don’t say things like that,” Millie said.

  “Like what?”

  Duke took Macky’s left. Newt was on Millie’s right. Flashes of lightning, like bluish light were beyond the fog. Around them, the buildings faded, replaced by desert sand, dunes, and a full, luminous moon. A parallel world was pushing its way through the setting of Innsport and into the alley where they stood. Just as quickly, it faded. They were back in Innsport.

  “Did you guys see that?” he asked.

  Duke nodded. So did Millie and Newt.

  A low growl issued ten feet in front of them, the quiet patter of feet.

  “Dev?” Millie said, panic in her voice.

  “I know, Mill.”

  “It’s like this,” Duke said. “It teases. It plays games.”

  The fog thickened. The footsteps were closer. The thing was standing right in front of them, but they couldn’t see it.

  “Aim and fire,” Macky said.

  “Fire at what?” Duke said. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Just fire. Aim at where you think it is and fire. Three guns ought to help.”

  “Dev, I can’t,” Millie said. “I’m shaking like crazy.”

  “You’ll do all right, Miss Millie,” Newt said. “We’ll do it together. On the count of three.”

  “I don’t think we have till the count of three,” Macky said, sweating.

  “One,” Newt said.

  “Two,” Duke said.

  “Three!” Millie said.

  Newt, Duke, and Millie fired into the fog.

  —

  “Is my throat torn out?” Millie asked.

  “No. But I think I just soiled my—”

  “That’s enough, Dev.”

  “There’s nothing there,” Duke said.

  “It’s gone,” Newt said.

  They stopped, all of them holding their breath. The clicking of the nails, the jangle of the collar, the low growl was silent. There was nothing there. The fog pulled back, revealing more of the alley, but there was no hound.

  “Dev,” Millie whispered.

  “I see them, Mill.”

  “Good Lord, what’s going on?” Newt asked.

  Glowing orbs gathered. Several were in the alleyway, the greenish-blue, membranous globes emitting translucent light. The stench of tarry stickiness was coming from them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Macky said.

  —

  Before they started back toward the office, the mist pulled back, revealing what could only be a doorway, a rectangular black space filled with stars and night sky. A silvery red protean light flashed and turned blue. The sound of what appeared to be a thousand insects deafened the alley.

  “I am the Keeper of the Gate! The Lurker at the Threshold. My name is Gomory! You have opened the First Gate! The Old Ones thank you!”

  The voice was a deep, unholy, diabolical intonation. The hound bayed again a few blocks over. Macky’s blood ran cold. From deep inside the portal, a miasma of liquid churned like a black hole in space. Wind blew. A shadow darkened the air above them, something with wings that came from the other side of the portal, a hellion flock of night creatures. It took Macky a second before he realized it was a million bats rising into the sky above Innsport.

  Chapter 6

  “I may have made a terrible mistake,” Macky said. “And for that, I apologize.”

  “There’s an understatement for the ages,” Duke said.

  They were back at the office, all of them breathing heavily. Especially Duke.

  “You said Capshaw was working on it?” Duke asked.

  Macky nodded. “I got the book to him today. It could be a while before he finds out anything, though.”

  “And there’s a hound in the city, along with what appears to be a thousand bats, and who knows whatever else might be coming out of that portal,” Newt said. “Or is still coming out of that portal. From the sound of Gomory, it might be the first. We have to assume there’s going to be others.”

  “What do we do now?” Millie said.

  “I’ll do some snooping,” Macky said. “You guys go home, get some prowl boys out to patrol the city. See if you can find out any more about this dog. Keep yourself loaded and safe. I need to look into some things. Who this Gomory character is. Capshaw might know, and what these gates are all about.”

  “Are you sure that’s safe on your own?” Newt said.

  “I agree,” Millie said.

  “I’m not sure we have a choice. There are things loose in the city. We have to assume the worst. First thing is people’s safety. I’ll get in touch with you, and let you know what I find.”

  “Sorry about all this, Dev,” Newt said. “We know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Macky nodded. “I appreciate it, Newt, if you’re trying to soften the blow, but I’ll figure something out.”

  Duke and Newt tipped their hands and left. The door closed behind them.

  Millie looked at Macky. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Grab your purse. And your jacket. I’ll take you home.”

  —

  “You gonna be okay, Dev?” Millie asked, her hand on the door handle of the coupe.

  He nodded. “Of course. Just stay inside, keep the doors locked, have fun with Mr. Kalabraise, and take good care of the plants.”

  “You make it sound so . . . unproblematic.”

  “I’m trying to keep it light, Mill.”

  She nodded and opened the door. She shut it, walked up the steps, and turned and waved before going inside. Macky waved back and pulled away from the curb.

  —

  “Now then,” he said, driving back to the office. “Let’s see what evil lurks in the hearts of men. Or in this case, Innsport.”

  He was trying to make light of the situation. That was true. The only way in which he knew how to deal with it. He didn’t feel comfortable investigating with Duke and Newt around, and he felt better knowing Millie was safe at home. She had the gun. Hopefully, it would be enough.

  He parked in front of the building and got out. He hurried up the stairs, into the office, grabbed the flashlight from the desk drawer, headed back downstairs, and into the alley behind the building.

  It was getting late. Lights were on. Windows were open, but it was quiet. The noisy commute had quieted. A cool autumn wind blew through the alley. The smell of dead leaves was in the air.

  He stepped through the alleyway and around puddles of water.

  It was quiet except for a light sprinkle pinging off the fire escape. More glowing orbs were coming to life, a bluish-green incandescence appearing like a slowly, opening eye. One was by the dumpster. Another was behind him to his right. They were different sizes, all of them. Were they growing?

  Gomory was the gate. Perhaps Gomory was the name of the gate. Or maybe it was a monster let loose from the other side. The Old Ones. He would have to ask Capshaw when he saw him again.

  Macky moved deeper into the
alley, panning the flashlight back and forth. Cold wind blew. Rain fell. The flutter of wings sounded. He looked up, unable to see anything but the clouds. The fire escape creaked. Something heavy settled onto it. It was too dark to see. He shined the flashlight, but the beam was too weak.

  His eyes adjusted to the dark. Something was there. The bulk of a shape. A head turned and looked at him.

  A low growl sounded behind him. He whirled around and shined the flashlight.

  Nails scraped the pavement.

  The smell was growing again, that tarry sort-of stickiness. Macky held his breath. His heart hammered in his chest. His throat was dry.

  Crickets chirped. The sound grew. Within seconds, it sounded like a thousand insects.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  He shined the flashlight on the fire escape, but he couldn’t see anything. Had it moved? A gust of wind touched his face, a giant wing flapping in his face.

  The insect noise was louder.

  The Old Ones thank you.

  Who were the Old Ones? And what did they want?

  You have opened the first gate . . .

  How did he prevent a second gate from opening? How did he know where it would be?

  “This is madness,” he said to himself.

  Something was out here with him.

  Cold wind touched his face. Laughter sounded in the fog—the Mad Arab taunting him.

  The orbs were glowing. More appeared. One by one down the alley, he could see them. The alley began to glow.

  “You’ve done it to yourself now, Dev,” he said.

  The hound bayed.

  For the second night in a row, someone screamed.

  Chapter 7

  Pouring over the tome in his office at the Natural History Museum, Creighton Capshaw took careful deliberation with the symbols and sigils, some going back thousands of years. The one on the right side of the page was a concentric, circular pattern with a half star in the middle and an arrow. It was a symbol for the Ninth Gate, Sefora. Whatever that meant. Something strange came over him as he studied the text. He found himself reaching for the pen on his desk and the notepad of paper. He jotted things down he had no idea about, as if wanting to add more history to The Necronomicon, much like the Mad Arab himself.

  Throughout the course of the evening, Creighton thought he heard the sound of laughter. He stopped, frowned, and looked around his office. Was that a figure standing in the shadows behind him? It must be his imagination.

  His eyes were burning red. The coffee was making his stomach churn. He had the pot on his desk, an electric metal pitcher. He’d filled it with water from the nearest bathroom, which was around the corner.

  The words, summaries of portals, descriptions of demons and places had a sing-song rhythm that put him in a trance. The foreign hand that penned the words seemed like his own. He’d read some of the history. Some who studied the arcane knowledge of The Necronomicon not only went insane but had met with terrible, tragic deaths.

  The warnings rang in his head like cannon fire. It was a risk but one he had to take.

  Capshaw leaned back, took his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes. He yawned. The sound of crickets started outside the window. A common sound in any place, the country perhaps, but not the city. He frowned and turned to the window. It changed, rising in volume. In seconds, it went from a single, rhythmic cadence to a perpetual whine. It sounded like the cry of demons. Cold sweat broke across his neck and cheeks.

  He turned back to the volume on his desk.

  The book of the black earth was a forbidden text. For those experienced in dealing with the dark arts, it was almost necessary. For museum curators, however . . .

  He put his glasses back on and flipped to the back of the book. Incantations filled the tome, rituals for opening gates, mention of animal sacrifices, even human beings. The text, from what he could see, was written in the original hand of Abdul Alhazred, the Mad Arab. He might be looking at the first copy of The Necronomicon. Was that possible? Would it have survived after all this time?

  A noticeable presence made him turn and look behind him. A blurred outline was standing in front of the filing cabinets. It had illuminated eyes. Just as quickly, it disappeared. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He swallowed the lump in his throat. A whisper sounded:

  “Finish it.”

  He went back to where he’d left, flipping to the front of the book. How mad did Abdul Alhazred have to be to find pleasure in this? One line had caught his eye: That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.

  Capshaw shivered with a chill. He wasn’t cut out for this. He knew who was, though. Who wasn’t afraid of it like he was.

  He was dealing with forces beyond his knowledge. He should’ve left the book with Macky. He was feeling feverish and rubbed his head again.

  He was filling the notepad: 13 gates, he’d written. Yog-Sothoth. Cthulhu. Shub-Niggurath, Nyarlathotep. He’d known about the book before, but its secrets were shrouded in mystery.

  Sketches of monsters filled several pages. The book was obviously unfinished. That’s what the voice had been trying to tell him. Not only was he worthy of its knowledge, it was meant for him—the reason it had been given to him in the first place . . . to continue the work Abdul had started.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said to himself.

  But if so, why the cold shiver? Why the voice? The presence?

  The idea appealed to him was the funny thing. He could gain some insight into the Mad Arab’s passion.

  The office faded, losing solidity. The only things in existence were he and The Necronomicon. He couldn’t explain it any more than he could explain why Macky had come into its possession. Capshaw saw the Mad Arab leaning over him, his hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear:

  “There’s more to discover. So much more! Together, we can please the Outer Gods, find favor, and be blessed by them!”

  He had to get away from it. It was playing tricks on his mind. A fever burned his brain. He closed the book. A bluish-green glow came from the window.

  Things of the earth and things of the cosmos. He’d written that down.

  Another world came into focus. The Necronomicon was the key, the gate to not one, but many—face to face with the Old Ones.

  He treasured this ancient artifact, longed to keep it in his possession, but it could wait. It was rare, yes, but quite possibly, dangerous. It had to be studied. It had to be understood.

  Capshaw took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes again. He got up, grabbed his jacket from the coatrack, and put the book in the bottom drawer of his desk. He locked it and made sure he had his keys to the drawer and the office. He put his jacket on, the bowler hat, and locked the door on his way out. He was breathing easier. Things were clearer all of a sudden. He took a deep breath. It felt good to get away.

  He made his way down the hall, the stairs, and into the lobby of the museum. A security guard was at work. It was Mike Petrie. Creighton should have gone home a long time ago, but he wanted to study the book. He would look at it tomorrow.

  “To please the Old Ones, you must follow the rules. They will be pleased with you after the second gate is open. Zagon awaits.”

  A shift in the atmosphere moved Capshaw from one place to another. He heard the words clearly, spoken in the Mad Arab’s voice.

  The foyer was changing, as if the museum were undergoing a transformation. The ground turned to dirt under his feet. He stepped on weeds and grass. A farmhouse was in the distance. A man in coveralls and a straw hat, carrying a pitchfork, looked at him. His eyes were evil. The wind was blowing. The man narrowed his eyes. The trees in the area had been felled, as though some giant force had bulldozed through the countryside. Lightning struck. A fresh ooze hovered over everything—a pungent, powerful aroma Macky would’ve called ‘tarry stickiness.’

  Just as quickly, he was back into the museum. The image of the farmhouse disappeared, the man with the p
itchfork. He looked around. He swayed on his feet. Had that just happened?

  “Mr. Capshaw? Sir, are you all right?”

  Capshaw blinked and saw Mike Petrie, the security guard, standing in front of him. He was a tall, dark-haired man with brown eyes. He had a friendly smile.

  “Sorry?” Capshaw said, and blinked.

  “Are you all right?” Mike asked. “You looked confused for a second, sir. Are you okay?”

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Capshaw looked around, trying to get his bearings. He could feel the wind from the countryside, smell the tarry stickiness. A greenish-blue glow was coming from outside. Or was he imagining that?

  “I’m . . . okay, Mike. Thanks. Working too hard. I just need some fresh air. Guess I hung out too long, huh?”

  Mike smiled and nodded. “You work very hard, sir. Maybe a nightcap before bed, huh?”

  Capshaw nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.”

  “You have a good night, Mr. Capshaw,” Mike said. “I’ll get the door for you.”

  “Thanks,” Capshaw said. He stepped outside and waved at Mike through the window. Mike smiled and waved in return.

  Capshaw shivered in his woolen suit as an October gale blew down the street. He’d stop at the nearest dive for a nightcap.

  —

  Durson Bar and Cocktail Lounge was on the next block at Lexington and 181st Street. When Capshaw walked inside, the sound of a languid piano drifted as lazily as the smoke. The singer was an exotic blonde wearing a black cocktail dress, diamond rings, and moving as slowly as a cobra. A black man in a white jacket and bowtie was bent over the piano. His eyes were closed. Another black man, wearing the same outfit, plucked at a large cello bass. A third was seated over a bass drum and snare.

  Capshaw took a seat at the bar. A clean-shaven man in a white shirt and vest, a bowtie, and a pencil-thin mustache, nodded in his direction.

  “Evening, Mac, what can I get for ya?” he said. He had a benign face.

  Capshaw smiled and asked for a scotch and soda. The man nodded, went to work, and procured his drink. Creighton reached into his wallet and put a few singles on the counter. He turned to watch the singer, sipped his drink, and listened to the band. He took in the surroundings. The tables were full, conversation idle and quiet, the atmosphere hazy, smelling of rich tobacco.